Service: * * * 1\/2
Food: * * * *
Ambience: * * *
Babe Count: * * * 1\/2<\/i><\/p>\n
I’ve ordered my chicken crispy. It’s the half chicken with a side salad. The side salad is much more generous than before. And the chicken is crispy. Hmmmm.<\/p>\n
And I’m still shaking a little bit.<\/p>\n
Why’m I shaking? Cos I’m now officially an honest to goodness Citizen of Gauteng (the province or state in which I live).<\/p>\n
I was on the phone to Jade, Eran’s babe, making arrangements to pick up some headshots of myself that Eran took. I need them to send to my agent, and to voicebank. I had just concluded a successful job interview, and was driving towards Dunkeld. Up Corlett Drive. Turned right into Oxford. Waiting at the red traffic light to turn right into Bompas Road. I phone Jade at the red light.<\/p>\n
“If you can come round on the weekend, Eran will be home, and he’ll know where to find the disc,” Jade says.<\/p>\n
“That’s cool,” I say. And I notice someone knocking on my window. He’s got a gun. “Oh shit,” I say to Jade, “hang on!” And by mistake, and in my confusion, I terminate the call.<\/p>\n
The traffic cop motions me to pull over in a driveway in Bompas. I do so. He comes to my window. “Do you KNOW what you did wrong?” he asks. I notice instantly that there’s no name tag in sight. My usual practice in a situation like this would be to be as charming as possible, and talk my way out of it.<\/p>\n
“Yes officer,” I say. “I want to apologise. I was talking on my cellphone.”<\/p>\n
“How much you think this fine is?” he asks. He shows me an unblemished book of fines. His pen is ready. “It is five hundred rand,” he says.<\/p>\n
I step out of the car. “Oh man, officer,” I say. “Yeow. Is it possible for you to find it in your heart to forgive me?”<\/p>\n
He looks at me. Sideways. “Get back in the car.” I do. He goes round to the passenger side. Indicates I should roll down the window. I do. “You know how much the fine is?” he asks again. “Five hundred.”<\/p>\n
“Is it possible to make it a smaller fine?” I ask.<\/p>\n
“How much?” he asks.<\/p>\n
“Uhm…” I’m wondering what banknotes I’ve got in my wallet. If I say fifty rand, and I’ve only got a hundred buck note, I’m sure as heck not getting change from this chump. Think Roy, think. Okay… I broke a hundred last night. I say, “Would a fifty rand fine be acceptable to you?”<\/p>\n
He smiles, pretends to think about it a bit, looks at my li’l red convertible, smiles more broadly. Says, “Fifty rand is acceptable.”<\/p>\n
“How do I do this, officer?” I’ve got the note out. He’s holding my driver’s licence in his right hand. “I’ve never done this before.”<\/p>\n
“Fold it small!” he says. “Keep your hand down. I take it when I give you this.” He waves the driver’s licence.<\/p>\n
I fold the fifty in half, and half again. I scoop up a discarded pamphlet from my floor, and hold the note under that. I hand it to him. He gives me the licence, and takes the money. I can’t even see his hand move into his pocket. He’s slick at this. A very smooth operator.<\/p>\n
“Do you promise never to do this again?”<\/p>\n
“Officer,” I say, “I would be lying if I made that promise. But I can promise I’ll TRY not to get caught again.”<\/p>\n
He smiles. Waves me off.<\/p>\n
“Sala gahle,” I say in Zulu. (Stay well.)<\/p>\n
When I get to Fournos, I realise that this traffic officer, with his gun, and his irrevocable authority, and his absent name tag, is exactly the same as a mugger or a hijacker. He has exactly the same power apparatus behind him… the threat of violence, the power of surprise, the threat of hazy fantasy consequences, the gun. I got mugged, in essence. And every South African who pays a bribe has been mugged in the same way.<\/p>\n
When I chat to M about it, she’s kinda happy about the fact that I got away with paying just fifty bucks instead of five hundred. I say to her, “Okay… but think about this… what happens if I were a girl in a car on my own, and this WASN’T a crowded intersection but rather the side of the road somewhere. What if the officer solicited a blow job instead of fifty bucks. That’s rape. Isn’t it?”<\/p>\n
Ah fuck it. I’ll just eat my chicken and my salad. And I’ll think about being a nine-to-sixer for the next while working as a copywriter at an online gaming empire. And I think I’ll order a slice of chocolate mousse cake with a decaff cappuccino when I finish my lunch. It’s off to gym after anyway.<\/p>\n